


"All the things (s)he said" - (Ya Soshsla S Uma)

by thelastbarricade



Series: Hemlock Grove Prompted fics [1]
Category: Hemlock Grove, Hemlock Grove (Netflix)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood Kink, Bloodlust, F/M, Gore, M/M, Multi, Other tags will be added as story progresses, Violence, WIP, Werewolf, depictions/flashbacks of rape, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastbarricade/pseuds/thelastbarricade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Title inspired by the t.A.T.u song, so sue me, it had a cool feel while writing)</p><p>Peter is given a revelation by a ghost, quite literally, from his past.<br/>He swore he'd been done with Hemlock, with pain and fear and love.<br/>He swore he'd never let himself hurt like that again...<br/>but he's sure, now, in the wake of this spirit's reveal,<br/>that the only one who can mend him<br/>remains in Hemlock still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stronger Than Steel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/774715) by [csi_sanders1129](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csi_sanders1129/pseuds/csi_sanders1129). 



> Romancek prompt [Multi-chapter, keep in mind] requested by Heather+Martin:
> 
> (promises of soon-to-be) "Top!Roman with the dramatic return of Peter, Shelley, and and in some ways my own twisted reveal of the Ouroboros. With some personal revelations via Roman Godfrey. "
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Prompt was inspired by another work of fiction based off of Hemlock Grove on this site, I have included credit as it should so be deemed but have not read or been influenced in any way personally by the original author's/idea conspiritors writing. Thanks!

  "Shell-" Peter sat upright in his seat, catching eye of a girl he recognized, yet...couldn't possibly have.   
    
  She wasn't right.   
  Not in the way that Peter remembered, not in the way that he remembered Shelley Godfrey; heiress to Godfrey industries and (not so little) sister to one Roman Godfrey.   
  
  This girl Peter's glance lingered on smiled broadly from beneath shadowed branches and tall reeds with eyes that called out rather than watched on; waved in a solemn fashion that had to be felt rather than seen.  
  
  Peter felt the tightness in his chest, the same one he'd felt brushing back that lock of stray faux hair from the hidden emerald green gem of an eye that day in the hallway.  
  
  The day he became entwined in the constantly changing uprising and conspiracy that was the Godfrey name.  
  The day he befriended Roman Godfrey.  
  The day he'd been given a friend and an undertaker and an ally.  
  The day he was destined to leave behind same friend who's sisters ghost had just projected herself in the midst of an afternoon light.  
  
  Lingering in his rear view mirrow was the figure of the same Shelley Godfrey who was--more than just likely--dead, of that he was sure.  
  Peter's mind scrambled to put together exactly what it meant, this ghost of proportions and predicaments past. Was it guilt? A sign from the fucked up holy ones who'd brought him back to Hemlock Grove in the first place? What?  
  
  All Peter knew was he felt a fear in him, an importance. One that reminded him of words spoken by the only friend the Romani Gypsy could call to date.  
  
  Peter barely felt himself register his movement as his arm struck the steering wheel his mother held in a blind halt.  
  
  " _Pete_ -!" Lynda Rumancek cursed a thousand expletives, none of them audible over the sound of screeching metal and the scent of freshly burned rubber.  
  
  "Just _what_ in the holy **_fuck_** do you think-?!" The car had come to a stop near the edge of the long road Peter and his mother had set out on. The sun was still risen half in the sky, casting harsh shadows in the low lighting of the old car now stalled on the side of the road.  
  
  No limbs were broken, no blood spilled. It was a lucky little skid, although Lynda Rumancek would beg to differ.  
  
 "You want to fuckin' tell me about _what - in - the - **hell**_ that was?"  
  
  Peter licked his lips, scrubbing a palm over his newly shaven head, shaking off the bit of jittered nerves remaining in his system. His brain was still spinning, much like the car had when it swerved. Hell, Peter was barely breathing.  
  
  The Rumancek son shut his eyes tight, and Lynda paused.  
  
  "Peter-" A hand immidiately lay on her son's thigh, voice soft and demeanor comforting; like his mother had always been and always would be. Romani's stuck together, was their will, their life.  
  
 "We gotta' go back."  
  
  "What do you-?"  
  
  "I don't fucking know, okay?!" Peter shooks his head, leaning back against his car seat with a hard exhale, sinking into the soft chair. "We just--we have to. Right now. I-I gotta' get..." Peter's body was a burst of tremors as he struggled to sit still, eyes still watching his rear view mirror for a girl that would no longer reappear.  
  
  "Gotta' get? What? Spit it out." Lynda took her free hand off the steering wheel, turning to face her son. "Talk to me, Peter."   
  
  "Roman." He whispered, eyes shut as he pulled on the crocheted beanie his mom had made him before they'd left. "Mom, we gotta' get Roman. Something's wrong."  
  
  Lynda started the engine without another word, pausing only as she curved the car with the softest sigh back towards Hemlock Grove.  
  
  "Are you sure, Peter? Once we go back, once they know we're there-" She held up a hand, inclining her head in ever slight, eyes hard on the road before her. "You're going back to a lot of pain, baby. We can't just up and leave again like this. We're gonna' have to-we're gonna' have to wait."  
  
  "I know." Peter nodded, eyes lost on the evergreen forest as he leaned his temple against the window.  
  
  "Are you sure about this, baby? I know Roman was your friend-"  
  
  " _Is_ , Mom. He _is_ my friend." Flashbacks of smoke and beers and Shelley and midnight runs to the cemetary and his cousin's voodoo all ran through his mind in a flash, sickening him. Making him ache for a town just minutes ago he'd been so destined, determined, to leave.  
  
  "Okay." Lynda sighed. "I know Roman Godfrey  _is_ your friend, and Letha was-"  
  
  "Don't you mention her." Peter growled out, more like a kicked pup than anything concerningly harsh.  
  
  "Peter you're going to have to face this. Face them. If you want to see Roman--if you _truly_ believe somethin's wrong...I'll drive you up there to that goddamn fortress myself, you know that baby." Lynda stroked her son's cheek as the Hemlock Grove entrance sign peaked just up ahead.  
  
  "Please," Peter's voice was soft, weak, like it had been after his first change. Damaged, turned. "I can take it, okay. I'm grown-"  
  
  "Don't change jack shit and you know it." Lynda's voice hardened as they passed the welcoming sign, its phrase of a decrepit 'Drive Carefully' like a mocking motto in Peter's eyes. "What you witnessed in that town, what we're going back to--it's gonna' hurt you."  
  
  "I know." Peter barely moved.  
  
  "Promise me you won't do anything _stupid_." His mother's voice broke as she gripped the steering wheel a little harsher, and for the first time he heard the uncertainty, the fear in his mother's voice.  
  
  Peter broke his gaze from the winding road outside of his window, eyes so childlike as they turned back to her.  
  
  "I can't promise that, mom."  
  
  Lynda nodded at the road before her.  
  
  "I know."  
  
  "I promise I'm gonna' try...to be okay."  
  
  Lynda laughed, a bitterness in her breath. "And that Godfrey kid's gonna' help you?"  
  
  Peter shrugged, setting the beanie on his head with a little tug. "I think he's the only one who can."


	2. Cinnamon and Clove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Gypsy will never change,  
> They always Leave,  
> Their lives are just  
> one  
> continuous  
> game.

  Olivia did not flinch when the crash of glass broke barrier to her ears, her son's screams of pain and rage.  
  She did nothing more than smirk against the bud of her cigarette; smoke tendriled through her nostrils in the cold evening air.  
  
  Footsteps shifted across what sounded like carpet. Roman's breath met her ears some feet behind her.  
  
  "Darling-" Olivia barely blinked as she turned in slow to face her son.  
   
  "If you so much as  _speak_ I swear to god I'll tear out your throat and leave you here to die myself."  Roman kept his eyes downcast as he pushed himself through the door of the Rumancek trailer house. He leaned  up against the doorway, elbow pressed into the chipping metal frame he entered through as his pale, slender frame sagged with fatigue. His eyes remained dark. The blood on his knuckles still fresh from where flesh met the wood within the trailer fueled by anger, rage, insecurity...pain--he could not meet his mother's eyes.  
  
  "He's gone."  Olivia's tone was still tender as she ignored her son's threat, tossing her cigarette aside into the cold Autumn leaves at their feet. A bit of hardness brandished her tone, a reality she gave Roman often; a reminder of authority. "That can't be changed." Her voice remained indifferent around the subject of the Gypsy Romani and what he left her son with. Olivia refused to acknowledge the dirty long-haired trash of a boy and his mother could have been of any importance.   
  "You had to know he'd always leave." Olivia brushed back a stray lock of her long dark hair, nose turned up a bit as she let out a breath reminiscent of laughter. An echo of her past trapped on replay in her mind. "They never stay long."

  Roman lifted his eyes to hers, dark brows hard lined against snow skin, jaw pulsating with the thunderous beat of his heart.  
    
  "I want to go home." Roman swallowed, shoving himself off of the trailer steps. He didn't give his mother the option to deny him nor approve. He was halfway to the car, up the trench steps, before Olivia could even bat an eyelash.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  "Roman?" Olivia's voice echoed throughout the empty estate as she knocked on the door of her son's bedroom, lips tainted red with fresh color, eyes powdered and complection smoothed over to fit her poise.  The Godfrey heiress' dress mimicked that of a snow white field laced with the blood rivulets of fallen enemies. Or allies. Olivia couldn't be bothered much to care which fell. The dress fit her tastes well enough, especially considering the occasion; the eighteenth year of her oldest (and as far as she was concerned) only, child. The only child she could come to care for, to love. To call her own by all means.  
  
  There was no reply.  
  
  And of course Olivia found him, wallowing in the pit of a pool that hadn't run for several years, not since J.R. had passed.  
  Considering he was the one who had insisted on the blasted thing, Olivia took no such interest in an underground wade and water bath. A giant pit of chlorine and festering human DNA particles, as she so thought it. So after his death, she had it drained and abandoned. So it remained.  
  
  Now Roman sat in its skeletal chest, the pit of bare tile and dusted corners.  
  
  Olivia looked upon her son with the most fond of smiles, pulling her long flowing dress with her as she held a congradulatory arm out to her eldest. A sparkler (as she was always one for theatrics) lay in her right hand. The bright fizzling lights of burning light fell away from her, illuminating her form in the most unnatural of lights.  
  
  "Happy birthday, darling." Her voice carried out across the pool room, in half darkness she bathed. "Come now, we musn't delay the festivities. You're only eighteen once." Olivia lifted the sparkler near her opposing hand, extinguishing the sputtering flame with the pinch of her fingers.  
  
  Roman barely blinked, shutting off the droning beat of music at his side and stepping out from the pit of the pool.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  "You're absolutely certain?" Lynda Rumancek tapped her fingers against the steering wheel as their car moaned anf groaned its way up the Godfrey drive. "I mean, because I think maybe if we go to Destiny first, she could-"  
  
 "Destiny's done all she can do about the matter. It's my path I choose, and Roman's his own." Peter bit at his lip, swallowing back the queasiness in his stomach as they drove past the open gate entrance of the manor. "No amount of Gypsy hoodoo and Romani blessings can change that, mom."  
  
  "Well, blessings and hoodoo be damned then, Peter. You're worth more than you cousin's words of wisdom, worth more than Romani intuition and generations  _period_." Lynda parked the car near the entranceway, taking a breath as her eyes lingered on the towering estate before them. Lynda turned to Peter with a firm nod. "You're my boy." Her eyes flickered as she brushed his stubble-ridden cheek, a faint glimmer in her eyes. "Us Romani have to fight for enough to get by, I'm not gonna' let you go without one hell of a fight--hear me?" Lynda set a determined brow on her son, smiling in soft as she lay her palm against his neck in soft, tracing his pulse with motherly affection.  
  
  "Mom," Peter tried to hide the small smile on his lips. "You can't protect me forever."  
  
  "True," Lynda rummaged through her glove compartment for a moment, pulling out a small leather pouch rounded off by a braided hemp string. The bag filled the car with a scent of cinnimon, clove, and something faint of lavender and oak. "For me." Lynda nodded in soft, holding the necklace up to Peter. "Peace of mind."  
  
  Peter eyed the bag, the scent of cinnimon and oak still thick in his mind--it reminded him of safety, of home. A home he had never truly known outside of wilderness and woods. "For you." Peter let out a soft breath, dipping his head to let the pouch of protection slip around his neck, a calming barely washing over him in the form of the faintest sweet.  
  
  Lynda whispered a soft Romani prayer, an incantation before kissing his cheek. "I'll be right here."  
  
  "I know." Peter slid his hand over to the car door and let it fall open with a soft metal _clunk_. The wintry air just veering toward autumn spice hit his skin, his senses. He pulled his beanie a little neater on his head, over his ears as he made his way through the doors of the Godfrey estate.  
  
  
**  
  
  
  "What is this?" Roman glanced about the darkened room, pale evergreen eyes shifting over the dark veil encircled by a low glow of burning flame. To be quite honest, he wanted to laugh, even in the prescence of his mother--this was ridiculous. He half expected the windows to shatter and the floorboards to moan and creek with the strength of an unseen force.  Werewolves, Gypsies, Vampires...was a cheap themed poltergeist really so far off?  
  
  "It is your homecoming, my love." Olivia's dress splayed out along the wooden floorboards as she stepped ahead of her son.    
  "It is your throne. Your right." Her dark hair waved over her shoulders as she stepped through the candlelight, veiling herself in a sheer black as she lifted the canopy of the ebony crib before her.  
  
  Roman swallowed, uneasy. He tried to eye around the crib, to fathom the proportions of just what his mother could mean.  
  
  "I-I don't understan-"  
   
  "You're throne, Roman." Olivia seemed to be cooing in soft. A faint cry met Roman's ears, his eyes widened in ever slight.  
  "Where you will _consume your crown_."  
  
  Roman shook his head slightly, confusion clouding his eyes; thoughts falling into one another as he strugged to piece together the scene before him.  
  
  Olivia's hands were on his face then, by means of memory. He could hear her now, whispering, feel her touch, gaze upon dark eyes meeting the intensity of his own.  
  
  ' _ **Remember...**_ '  
  
  Roman blinks away the shuttering images flickering across his mental vision. He tries to refuse the reality before him, refuse his mother's voice and her order and her power. He tries to refuse this-this Angel, this being, this entirety presented could be...could be his burden to bare.  
  
  He tries.  
  
  
**  
  
  Peter's steps barely make sound as they slide over the tile that lines the entrance way of the Godfrey estate.  
  He closes the door behind him, much to the ever concerned glance of his mother as the heavy doors fall shut.  
  A few leaves blow in the upturned wind into the manor, leaving the echo of hinges falling to a close the only sound around him.  
  With a long breath he leans back against the door, setting it in place, the rhythym in his chest interrupted by his own firing nerves.  
  
  _What am I even fucking doing here_?  
  
  The image of Shelley flooded him, an emotion so heavily burdened his breath seemed to weigh itself down upon wanting to be taken.  
  
  _What **am** I doing here_.  
  
  He clutches the protective herbs at his chest, another long breath falling from him. He can taste the cinnimon, feel the heat of an oil on leaves dried and salted he can't quite...place. Lynda kept her secrets, her tradition. In that moment it put Peter to ease.  
  
  He forced his body to move from the closed entrance, fingers encircled in the hemp of his necklace.  
  His feet broke forward in slow, heavy steps, like the burden of Shelley--of her voiceless plea--encased him like the protection bag did now.  
  
   Peter let himself be guided up stairs he had never known, fingers brushing cold marble and stone and wood as he let his body be raised higher into the manor.  
  
  _What are you doing here?_ , those words echoed in his head, over and over and over.  
  
  
**  
  
  
  Roman's vision was interrupted by the shuffle of footsteps, of heels scraping against wood. The pain in his temple ebbed, the throbbing dissapearing with the images into a dull ache.  
  
  Olivia faced him now, head cocked, eyes dark and upturned to the door behind him. Her nostrils flared in soft from what Roman's returning vision could make out.  
  
  "What-?"  
  
  "A gypsy..." Olivia took one slow step toward the door, turning in slight away from Roman. "Is a gypsy..." Olivia's hardened expression fell instantly, a small smile curving onto her lips as she traced her son's jaw, his collarbone as it lay exposed. "Is a Gypsy."  
  
  Roman's brow furrowed, words barely on his tongue when he cuaght the scent of oak, a subtle cinnimon and clove...and then Honey. That subtle sweetness he knew only of on skin that had been naked running through flowers and wilderness.  
  
  "Peter?!" His voice broke the barrier in it's urgency and fear. The spell was broken, the memories left uncast. In that moment, to Roman, there was no angel, no darkness no siege or crown; there was just Peter. Peter.  
  
   
 


End file.
